


if only i could

by adjourn



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Skyrim Fusion, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-26 15:01:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6244384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adjourn/pseuds/adjourn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek fights for his life; Stiles does his thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if only i could

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this a while ago as the first chapter of what i imagined would be a lengthy skyrim au, but after pretty much losing interest in sterek the rest of the fic was abandoned and this went unpublished. until now!!!! hope you enjoy.
> 
> (idk i kinda just wanted to kill my streak of conhayth fics, lol)

Derek is running.

The moons pulse bright amidst the dark sky, thrumming overhead like the pull of home. Masser and Secunda have always spoken to him because of his blood, swayed his changes far more than any of the others. He was born with the gift, with the forbidden magic. Wolves and white stags have haunted him since he was able to dream, and it's made him stronger, quicker, better.

Which is a fact that he's really thanking Hircine for right now.

"You can't flee forever!"

"Stand and fight, cowardly mutt!"

The voices are accompanied by hollers of agreement and derision, coming from what seems to be every direction. Derek stops, takes a moment to listen to the footsteps crashing through the brush, then abruptly takes off eastward. There are less Silver Hand in that direction, enough that he thinks he might be able to handle in his current condition.

He's returning from a job with the Dragonborn that had involved slaying an actual _dragon_ , and he'd been quite viciously maimed in the process. Derek had chugged a few health potions and bound his wounds as well as he could, but he was still significantly weakened when the Dragonborn yelped, "Shit, I was supposed to meet Allison in Riften yesterday. I have to go, sorry!" and promptly left.

Derek has a healthy respect for the to-be savior of Tamriel as much as any citizen, but the Dragonborn can be a real careless idiot.

"Found you, filthy—"

The Silver Hand falls to the dirt, throat ripped open by Derek's claws. His comrade lets out an outraged shout before two of his limbs are torn from his body.

Derek growls as the other hunters charge him, eyes glowing vibrant red in the low torchlight. They swing axes and swords and fire at him, nicking him occasionally but mostly falling to the force of his powerful blows. Derek searches for an opening, but it seems that the waves of Silver Hand are endless. Divines. It was just his luck that he had stumbled upon a huge encampment.

There's a brief, _extremely_ brief, lull in the fighting, and Derek surges back into the thick shadows to escape. But an arrow catches him through the kneecap at the last instant, and he collapses, a whine of pain escaping the back of his throat. He sinks his claws into a tree and pulls himself upright, snarling at the advancing hunters. The one with the bow smirks at him from far away, notching another arrow.

Derek is no longer running, and he's fairly certain he's about to die.

But he'll be damned if he goes down without a fight.

He lunges for the nearest Silver Hand, tackling her to the forest floor and closing his fangs over the upper half of her head. Derek snarls as he bites down, crunching skull between his teeth, and spits brain matter into another hunter's face before he uses his claws to tear through his ankles. The hunter shrieks in pain for an instant before Derek slashes his face off.

He's acting on instinct, primal urges driving him to rip into the Silver Hand with much more ferocity than usual, helpless to the wolf. He's a cornered animal, desperate, and it makes his weakness that much stronger.

But it's still not enough. Two more arrows lodge themselves in his back, and he stumbles forward practically onto one of the Silver Hand's blades. He howls, rips the sword from his abdomen and launches it back at its owner, but the damage is done. Derek can feel the conscious world slipping away as he drops, and a sudden wave of calm washes over him. He feels no need to fight. This is the end. He can finally be with his family, free and wild in Hircine's Hunting Ground.

Strangely enough, though, all the Silver Hand appear to have stopped advancing as well. They stand relaxed, weapons hanging loosely by their sides, looking as calm as Derek feels.

And then they start dying.

One by one, they crumple to the ground, throats slit by an invisible blade. And those still alive watch on, utterly serene, like under a spell.

Derek registers the accuracy of this thought before oblivion takes him.

 

*

 

Derek awakens to the overwhelming stench of stale blood and death. It isn't a pleasant scent.

He's in the same patch of forest where he'd fallen unconscious. Hours must have passed, for the sky is clear and the sun is warm on his skin. He's exhausted and his mind is hazy; it's difficult to resist simply drifting off again, but he has to investigate exactly what happened, how he's still alive, and why he's bundled up in an assortment of dirty furs.

"You might not want to move."

Derek jolts to full alertness at the voice, but his attempt to get into a defensive position is ruined by the crippling agony in his ... well, his everywhere. He groans and slumps back onto the pile of furs, miserable. Thankfully, the pain quickly fades.

"Did I not just tell you—?" A young Breton appears by his side, sighing in exasperation. "Try not to move anymore. I did the best I could, but I'm no healer. You won't die any time soon, not if I can help it, but you'll be in a world of pain if you keep flailing around, o' great werewolf warrior."

"Who are you?" Derek growls menacingly. Okay, so it was more of a rasp. And not at all menacing, if the way the kid grins in response is any indication.

The Breton pauses, leans in close, then whispers theatrically, " _Your worst nightmare_."

Derek stares, unimpressed. The kid's obviously not a threat, not if he's healed Derek, kept him safe and warm for however long. And the werewolf feels tranquil around him, at peace; it's like he's finally reached the edge of the world and leapt through the black of night, onto the waiting moon. The pull of the shift, usually ever-present, is gone.

"Sorry, sorry," the kid laughs, "Couldn't help myself. I'm Stiles. I'm Scott's best friend. You know, Scott, the Dragonborn, the almost-savior of the mortal plane. We ran into each other a day ago and he told me how he left you all by your lonesome after being mauled by a dragon, and asked me to come check up on you because he worried you might be in danger. And since I'm a great best friend and a soft heart, I tracked you down and sure enough, you were getting your ass kicked by these losers." Stiles waves his hands at the dead bodies scattered throughout the forest. "So, you're welcome. Hail Stiles."

"You killed all of them?" Derek says incredulously. He takes in the baggy mage robes and boyish face, the upturned nose and pink lips and creamy skin and the amber gleam of his irises in the sunbeams. It's hard to believe that his boy could be a murderer, much less a terrifyingly competent one. He looks like a novice adventurer, bumbling about on his first journey, fresh-faced and innocent.

"Do you see anyone else around here?" Stiles asks, raising an eyebrow.

"No," Derek admits grudgingly, and then descends into a fit of coughing. Stiles hands him a waterskin and Derek sniffs for poison out of habit — not any real distrust — before taking several greedy gulps, water spilling from the corners of his lips.

"Wasteful," Stiles scolds, but uses the sleeve of his robe to gently wipe Derek's mouth anyway. Derek would complain, but he's too drowsy to make any fuss. The feeling of calm intensifies ten-fold, and then Derek is falling into Vaermina's embrace once more.

 

*

 

When he wakes up again, it's night. And he's angry. Very angry.

"If you cast that calming spell on me again, I'm going to rip your throat out. With my teeth," Derek snarls, wrenching himself out of the bundle of furs and standing up. He represses a wince at the searing pain in his abdomen, where both sword and dragon claw had pierced, and glowers at the mage sitting beside the campfire.

Stiles snorts, amused, as he continues tending to the flames. "Sure, pal. I don't need to again, in any case, because you're all up and jumping about. You can handle the pain now, can't you, tough guy?"

Derek rumbles menacingly. This time, it is very menacing.

Stiles looks up from the campfire, probably to make another condescending remark, but his mouth snaps shut and he flushes, turning away again.

"Right. You are naked. Forgot about that. We should, uh, remedy that. Here, um, let me just." Stiles stands up and scrambles for the knapsack leaning on a tree a couple feet away, tripping over a rock in the process. "Divines. Wow. You are so embarrassing, Stiles," he mutters to himself, apparently forgetting about Derek's enhanced senses. Derek is caught between annoyance and amusement at his flustered state.

"You can wear these for now."

A blur of cloth is thrown at him; Derek unfolds it to find a simple tunic and a pair of pants. They definitely aren't his personal armor set, which is tragically lost somewhere in Falkreath Hold, nor do they feel particularly comfortable. He grudgingly pulls them on anyway.

After Derek is dressed, Stiles turns back and smiles sheepishly, eyes trailing the length of Derek's figure. "I wanted to give you armor, but I wasn't sure about plucking it off the Silver Hand's corpses. I mean, an honorable Companion like you probably doesn't want to wear the enemy's steel," Stiles explains. He sits by the campfire again. "Anyway, the throat-ripping business. Like I said, I only calmed you down so the pain wouldn't affect you as much. And also because Scott told me you're more of a 'kill first, ask questions later' Nord. Which, unsurprising. I've yet to meet a Nord that isn't like that. But truly, you should be thanking me for saving your life and nursing you back to health, not being all hostile."

Derek wants to punch him in the face, just a bit. But there are more pressing matters at hand.

"You know our secret then?" Derek demands.

"Secret?" Stiles echoes, blinking in confusion.

"The Companions," Derek says impatiently.

Stiles' face lights up with realization. "Oh, that secret? The one about the Inner Circle all being creatures of the night? No idea," his expression suddenly turns solemn, "absolutely none. I am as oblivious as the rest of Skyrim. Well, half of it. Maybe one-third. A fifth, at the least."

Derek stiffens. "Are you saying that others know?"

"Probably all of Whiterun knows, honestly," Stiles says. "And anyone who is capable of intelligent thought. You guys are terrible at hiding your little furry problem."

Derek stalks threateningly in his direction, wanting some real answers, to which Stiles rolls his eyes and pats the ground beside him.

"Please, I'm only joking. Anyone who knows has kept tight-lipped thus far. Don't worry so much, sourwolf. Come sit and enjoy the fire, bask in the glory of no longer being in excruciating pain or at Oblivion's front door."

Stiles grins impishly, tongue swiping briefly over his bottom lip. His eyes shimmer like pools of molten gold in the firelight.

And because Derek trusts the judgment of the Dragonborn, and only that, Derek sits.

 

*

 

They end up traveling together for a little while. Or rather, Stiles follows Derek on his trek back to Whiterun, citing that it's his duty as a best friend to ensure Derek is healthy and safe, and it would be a great taint upon Stiles’ honor if he left an injured fellow to defend himself in the wild.

Stiles grates on Derek's nerves. Firstly, he's a mage, and Derek has had all-around awful experiences with things of the magical variety. Secondly, his dignity as a warrior of the Companions is a bit hurt at being saved by a babbling idiot, even if he is the Dragonborn's self-proclaimed best friend (Derek actually believes this; the Dragonborn's unmistakable scent clings to Stiles, an overwhelming, concentrated power that seems ethereal). Thirdly — well, Stiles isn’t actually a babbling idiot, and Derek, at this point, could really not care less about his magical inclinations. Stiles is wickedly sharp, wit and tongue included, and the fact that he talks Derek's ear off makes him no less attractive. His slender fingers and pink lips are going to drive Derek mad. Derek just thanks the Nine that mage robes are so unflattering.

“You alright?” Stiles asks, and oh, Derek has clearly been staring at the pale column of his throat for too long.

“Fine,” Derek grunts. He glares resolutely ahead at the gentle waters of Lake Ilinata, ignoring how Stiles is sitting perhaps more closely than necessary, from their spot on the bank. They’ve stopped for a quick break, resting on the grassy shore and basking in the cool breeze. It’s peaceful, enjoying the view and listening to Stiles talk. Derek can be forgiven for getting caught in the moment.

“Of course,” Stiles says agreeably. Derek thinks that’s that, but then — "Is it your stomach wound? Need to me to take a look again, work my magic?” Derek isn’t looking, but he’s absolutely sure that Stiles is waggling his eyebrows.

“No.”

In reality, most of his wounds are already healed. He just hasn’t explicitly stated this to Stiles because ... because.

Derek has no excuse for this.

“If you insist,” says Stiles uncertainly. He sounds genuinely concerned, and it makes guilt twist in Derek’s stomach like a real wound.

“I’m fine,” Derek says, trying his best to be reassuring.

“Alright, alright. No need to be so aggressive,” Stiles remarks. Apparently "reassuring" had sounded angry, as usual. Hircine save him. “You’d think one would be a little more grateful to his savior.”

“Maybe if the savior had been more prepared,” Derek says. Because it turns out _all_ of Stiles’ supplies had been scrounged off the Silver Hand’s corpses, which didn’t sit well with Derek. Of course, after a close call with a bloodthirsty bear, he’d ended up putting his honor momentarily aside for the sake of not dying from something as pathetic as an animal attack.

“Hey, I didn’t set out with the intention of saving your furry ass, okay? Scott caught me while I was headed home from a job, actually.”

“A job?”

“Extremely important business,” Stiles harrumphs. “Mystical stuff. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Right,” Derek says, unconvinced but amused nonetheless.

“Now, Master Wolf, shall we be off again?” Stiles nimbly leaps onto his feet, and Derek catches a flash of studded boots. “Your cozy mead hall of drunken werewolves awaits.”

Stiles grins cheekily and offers his hand. Derek takes it, reluctantly — because he may or may not have wanted to sit by the lake with Stiles for far longer.

 

*

 

Their journey is smooth, uninterrupted. It’s all too idyllic: travelling the land with Stiles by his side, picking herbs and flowers (because alchemy is a completely reasonable hobby for a warrior, okay, stop laughing Erica), watching the glimmer of the stars and the light of the moon before he goes to sleep. When they stop for breaks, something Stiles insists on because of Derek’s (nonexistent) injuries, Stiles uses magic to make butterflies land on Derek’s hair, laughing at the sight. And Derek scowls, carefully plucks the butterflies off, smears mud on Stiles’ face one day as revenge. It escalates. Derek finds that the telekinesis spell is an awe-inspiring weapon in mud fights. Derek also finds that he hasn’t felt so light, maybe even _happy_ , since the Silver Hand burned his family alive. He doesn’t want the road to end. He doesn’t want Stiles to leave.

But all good things come to an end, Kate had said as she lit the pyre, smiling. And Derek had watched the good things burn, burn away, until there was only smoke and ashes and Kate whispering in his ear: _Thanks for the help, sweetheart._

So, really, he shouldn’t have expected anything else with Stiles.

They’re just past Riverwood when it happens. Silver Hand, again, an ambush. Derek senses them before him and Stiles reach the stretch of road where they lie in wait, and quickly alerts the mage in the most subtle way he knows how — cutting him off with a short “Stiles” and glancing deliberately at the road ahead.

Derek isn’t exactly the king of subtlety. He’s a warrior, alright?

Stiles understands his message, but the Silver Hand do as well. They spring preemptively from their ambush points, charging the two with zealous cries. Stiles draws a dagger immediately, which Derek notes as a bit strange for a mage, but soon he's occupied with the barrage of hunters attacking him. Unwilling to transform in broad daylight and so near civilization, Derek uses the steel broadsword he’d pilfered from one of their comrades to brutally eviscerate and decapitate the hunters. In the corner of his vision, he sees Stiles gliding from enemy to enemy, slashing throats like it’s a practiced dance.

It isn’t how a mage fights. At all.

Derek stabs his sword clean through the chest of the last Silver Hand, twists, and pulls it free again. He slings it over his back and walks over to Stiles, who’s using his robes to wipe blood off his dagger.

Then he grabs Stiles by the neck and slams him against a tree.

“What are you?” Derek demands.

“Der — stop, I can’t,” Stiles chokes, clawing at Derek’s hand. He can barely get the words out, so Derek loosens his grip slightly. “What in Oblivion are you doing?”

Derek digs his fingers into the side of Stiles’ neck. “You aren’t a real mage. You move like a thief and fight like an assassin. So tell me, _Stiles_ , what are you?”

“Why does it matter?” Stiles asks. His face is blotchy and red, and he has tears in the corner of his eyes, but he’s stopped struggling. “I’m helping you. We’re _friends_.”

Derek tightens his hand, feels Stiles’ pulse hammering in his throat.

“I don’t befriend scum,” Derek spits, and hikes Stiles’ robe up to his chest.

Black and dark red leather, straps, buckles, studs.

“Dark Brotherhood,” Derek says hollowly.

He looks back at Stiles, who meets his gaze, desperate. “Don’t kill me.” Stiles pleads. “Derek, please.”

He doesn’t want to. He really, really doesn’t want to kill Stiles. But seeing the armor makes Derek remember Laura, sliced in half one morning by a hooded figure who doesn’t see Derek coming until it was too late; Peter, blood pooling beneath his body in the middle of the Temple of Kynareth; Cora, throat slit in her bed at Jorrvaskr. All of the Hale loose ends tied up neatly, except for Derek. Even if Kate was the mastermind, the Dark Brotherhood still murdered half his family.

And Derek can’t betray his family by letting one of those sick bastards live.

“I’m sorry,” Derek says.

And then Stiles stabs him in the arm.

The ground comes up to meet up Derek. He flops uselessly onto his stomach, cheek smacking against the dirt road. He can’t move his limbs, or anything else. His mind is shockingly clear, but he can’t move a single part of his body. Poison.

He watches Stiles strip out of the mage robes, fully revealing the Dark Brotherhood armor underneath. Stiles pulls up the cowl so that only his eyes are visible, then picks up his dagger and sheathes it alongside two others.

“Hail Sithis,” Stiles says viciously, looking toward the open road. He casts one burning glance at Derek before he disappears, invisible.

His eyes were like twin moons, bright and alluring, amidst the darkness of the cowl.


End file.
